


you can just be you

by thompsborn



Series: vent fics [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: M/M, idk how to tag this bc my brain isnt working rn, talks about death, talks about trauma, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:33:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25160053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thompsborn/pseuds/thompsborn
Summary: But it’s easy to be someone else in college.Peter realizes this when Harley comes with him to New York for the beginning of summer, and it clicks in his head—Harley doesn’t know him.Or, he does, but not all of him. He knows Peter’s college self, the one that doesn’t show his trauma and isn’t stared at in the halls because everyone else knows them, too. He knows the Peter that lives in a dorm and goes back home every other weekend to visit family. He knows only the good parts—the stuff that Peter puts on display and doesn’t try to hide.
Relationships: Harley Keener/Peter Parker
Series: vent fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782634
Comments: 9
Kudos: 171





	you can just be you

**Author's Note:**

> i wasnt sure if i was gonna classify this as a vent fic but then i wrote the line peter says about existing for someone else and blaming yourself for their death and wanting to live for them and like - yeah this is a vent fic. an odd one, but a vent fic nonetheless.

It’s easy to be someone else in college.

Peter finds this out during his first week at MIT. No one knows him there—other than Ned, of course, but that’s different. It’s not like high school, where everyone in his grade watched the live new report covering his uncle’s death, where they all saw as the camera swept across the crime scene and, for just a moment, sitting in the back of an ambulance, they could see fourteen year old Peter Parker, shivering under the blanket draped over his shoulders, blood staining his fingers and his clothes and dotting his neck and face from the—the _spray,_ caused by the bullet ripping through. Even if no one approached him about it directly, it was something that weighed him down at Midtown. Everyone saw him at his lowest.

At MIT, all anyone knows is what Peter tells them. They only see Peter Parker—the kid from New York, who has an internship locked into place at Stark Industries the second he graduates and likes to wear sweatshirts that are a bit too big on him. Eighteen and giggly and, as far as they’re concerned, untouched by the traumas of life. Pure, bubbly, and bright.

He isn’t a super social person, per se—as in, he can hold a conversation with some kind of ease, but he’s not that great at making new friends. Which is why it feels odd and exhilarating when he meets Harley, and they just—they _click._

It’s like falling into place when they’re together. Peter feels unrestrained and able to make all the stupid little jokes that pop up in his brain and Harley laughs at each and every one. Most of the time, he claims to be laughing at just how bad of a joke it is, but Peter doesn’t mind—he knows his sense of humor is a little odd and as long as it makes someone laugh, that’s alright.

Falling into place—platonically, easily—doesn’t take very long to change into just falling. In like, in what might be love, Peter isn’t sure just yet. All he knows is that he starts saying whatever he can think of just to hear Harley laugh again.

(Ned isn’t helpful in the slightest when this happens. He just laughs, has to drop his head to rest it against his textbook while his shoulders shake and Peter would be annoyed if he didn’t just feel fond of the familiarity.)

The shift is gradual in a way that feels like nature chose to do it, like it was always meant to happen and they were only along for the inevitable ride. Peter soon learns that he quite likes holding hands, and he likes when they curl into each other on the sofa while a movie plays—knees to shins and wrists to elbows and it looks uncomfortable, according to Ned, but it feels like trees twisting their roots together, like they mould into one another—and he especially learns that kissing is a lot of fun. Like, a lot.

But he also learns that Harley is from a small, conservative town in Tennessee. He learns that he has a mother that has to work two jobs just to pay the bills and put the food on the table. He learns about Harley’s little sister and her knack for film making and the way her grin can brighten the room. He learns about Harley’s father leaving and—eventually, learns that he isn’t the only one with connections to Stark Industries, learns that Harley knows Tony, too, and that he had requested Tony not talk about him to anyone, which explains why this is news to Peter. Harley snorts when Peter tells him about his own father/son relationship with Tony and it feels even more like fate, somehow.

Peter learns to love not only Harley, but all the aspects about his life—the chronic depression, the insomnia, the way he chortles at immature jokes and smothers his giggles in the sleeve of his sweatshirts when he knows he shouldn’t laugh at something. Peter learns to love how Harley likes his coffee and how he sometimes starfishes across the bed and always ends up stealing the pillows—which is fine, because Peter is a blanket hog, so it evens out. Every little thing about Harley, Peter learns to love.

But it’s easy to be someone else in college.

Peter realizes this when Harley comes with him to New York for the beginning of summer, and it clicks in his head—Harley doesn’t know him.

Or, he does, but not all of him. He knows Peter’s college self, the one that doesn’t show his trauma and isn’t stared at in the halls because everyone else knows them, too. He knows the Peter that lives in a dorm and goes back home every other weekend to visit family. He knows only the good parts—the stuff that Peter puts on display and doesn’t try to hide.

And Peter never meant to keep it a secret, no, but it never seemed to come up. Peter tried so hard to only think about the relevant stuff during the school year—didn’t allow himselt to dwell on the bad things, didn’t even allow himself to think about Spider-Man and how he had to go from daily patrols to only on the weekends he was in New York. He focused on college and fun and Harley and nothing else.

“So,” Harley says, holding Peter’s hand and swinging their arms back and forth happily. They’re trailing down the sidewalk in Queens, and Harley only knows that they’re headed for where Peter used to live—before college, before deciding to spend his summer in the Tower with Mr. Stark for training and internship stuff. “Should I know anything in advance?”

Peter cocks his head to the side. “What?”

“Like, ways to act, ways to not act, stuff I should or shouldn’t say. The whole parent approval preparation guide, you know?”

“Oh. Uh—”

And it’s right there—the chance to open up his chest a little bit, to give Harley a peak into his past. But Peter is—a coward, sometimes.

He shakes his head. “No. You’ll be great.”

Harley meets May and it isn’t until about halfway through the night that he seems to realize that— “You’re not Peter’s mom.”

“No, I’m not,” May says simply. “I’m his Aunt.”

She leaves it at that, and Peter hopes it slides over quickly, but Harley seems confused and curious throughout the rest of the visit. Still, he smiles at May, ducks his head in a parting nod and wins her over with all his charm before they leave, and he waits until they’ve started walking around the block while waiting for Happy to pick them up to say, “I thought you said you were gonna show me where you lived.”

“I did,” Peter tells him. Hopes he drops it.

He doesn’t. “Then I’m confused.”

Peter purses his lips, squints up at the sky and keeps walking. “Why are you confused?”

“That was your aunt,” Harley says, almost slow and matter of fact, as if he’s forgotten that, yes, Peter knows who it was. But, to make matters worse, he then asks, “Where’re your parents?”

The laugh that bubbles up from Peter’s chest is rough and a little bland, bitter tasting. He shakes his head. “You don’t want to know.”

Harley stops walking, tugs on Peter’s hand until he stops, too. “Yes, I do. I want to know.”

“Trust me—” Peter keeps walking. “You don’t.”

“Why are you trying to make that decision for me?” Harley questions, almost—frustrated.

Peter huffs. “Why are you pushing at something I very clearly do not want to talk about?”

“Because I—” Harley waves his other hand through the air, as if scrabbling for his words, trying to pluck them from the space in front of him. “I’ve told you everything—everything about me, you know? You know—all of it, and I don’t want to act entitled or like I deserve to know everything about you or—but it definitely feels like... like, a red flag, or something, the fact that you’re not even mentioning your parents. If you have a bad relationship with them or something, or just—whatever—just, tell me that so I know not to talk about it.”

And Peter—he understands what Harley means. He understands how unsettling it must be to realize that you’ve opened up your heart and soul to someone who doesn’t seem keen on doing the same. But, Peter has—baggage, a lot of it, and maybe he never mentioned any of the shit he’s carrying at MIT because maybe he just wants to prolong the change, wants to have Harley look at him without seeing everything that’s gone wrong in his life—just a little longer.

But that isn’t fair to Harley, really. Because that baggage and that heaviness? That’s part of Peter, as much as he wishes it wasn’t.

“Fine,” Peter murmurs, and he pulls his hand back, away from Harley’s—not because he wants to let go, but now he feels a little bit like a fraud and isn’t sure if Harley will wants to keep holding hands after he finds out all his secrets.

A car pulls up to the curb before either of them can say anything else, and Peter wastes no time, doesn’t look at Harley or at Happy as he clambers into the backseat and says, “We’re going to see my parents on the way back to the tower, if that’s alright with you, Hap.”

Harley looks conflicted and wary as he climbs into the backseat as well, watches as Happy instantly whips around to look at Peter with wide, somber eyes. “Kid...?”

“Harley wants to meet them,” Peter says, swallowing roughly. “Haven’t seen ‘em in a while anyway, so—might as well, right?”

There’s a whirlwind of unreadable emotions in Happy’s eyes as he glances to Harley, looks back to Peter, and then nods, just once, the action kind of curt and firm. “Alright,” he says, tone soft. “We’ll stop there first. No biggie.”

All this does is make Harley nervous, almost afraid of whatever they’re going to walk into, but Happy is already shifting the car into drive and pulling away from the curb, and Peter is looking adamantly out of the window with hunched shoulders and arms tucked against his chest, and Harley’s tongue is twisted, stuck in the back of his throat. He stays silent, just looks down at his lap and ponders what’s gonna happen, wonders how far the drive is.

About fifteen minutes later, the car comes to a stop. Happy puts it in park. “We’re here.”

Harley steels himself, mentally prepares himself for whatever it is that’s making Peter act so broody and quiet, looks up and—

Feels his heart drop to his stomach.

Maple Grove Cemetery.

Peter clears his throat, pushes the door open and steps out of the car with almost silent footsteps, rounds the car and pulls open Harley’s door—doesn’t look at Harley, doesn’t look up at all, just holds the door open and says, “C’mon. It’s gonna be dark soon.”

Feeling speechless and—and suffocated by his own thundering, raging hesrt beat, Harley just nods and unbuckles himself with shaky hands. He steps out of the car and can’t stop looking st the word _cemetery_ , like staring will make it change from a graveyard and into a nice, cliché looking family home in the suburbs.

It doesn’t change. Peter closes the door behind Harley and silently leads the way—into the cemetery, clearly has the route memorized if the way he moves with ease and zero hesitation is telling anything. Harley just follows after him, struggling to catch his breath with the dread weighing down his lungs, and comes to a stop when Peter eventually freezes in front of a line of headstones, faces them with—empty eyes.

Harley parts his lips to suck in a harsh breath and turns his head, finds the names and—

_Mary Teresa Parker_

_Richard Laurence Parker_

_Benjamin Franklin Parker_

—there’s three.

Aunt May—just Aunt May, no partner in the apartment with her. Peter, telling Harley that it’s where he lived before college. Never mentioning his parents, or family, or—anyone, other than Tony, eventually. Father figure, Tony.

Because Peter’s dad is dead. His parents are dead. Ben—an Uncle, Harley guesses— _gone._

“I’m— _such_ an asshole,” Harley breathes, that weight growing tendfold in the pit of his stomach, making him feel ill, queasy, nauseous. “I can’t believe I—Christ, Peter, I’m so sorry.”

Peter chuckles, the sound dry and—not MIT Peter Parker, but _actual_ him. The real Peter, with the heaviness and the loss and all of the bad things. The Peter with the trauma and the pain and the deadpan rasp to his voice as he shakes his head and murmurs, “You’re not an asshole, Harley. You just didn’t know.”

“I shouldn’t have to know,” Harley says, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “You didn’t want to tell me, and—and it’s your right, not wanting to tell me, and I _pushed_ when it wasn’t my business and—I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I wanted you to know,” Peter says, his tone a little... _vacant_ of his usual conviction. “I _want_ you to know, really, I do, but—but it was so nice, not having everyone look at me differently because of what I’ve been through, y’know? By the time we met, I just—I never even thought about talking about it because I was trying so hard to keep all of that—all of the—the bad stuff, away from college. Away from me, for a bit. Just give myself room to breathe.” He laughs, an empty sort of sound, scrubs a hand over his features and looks down at where the toes of his shoes are sinking slightly into the damp grass. “Selfish of me, I guess.”

Harley wants to reassure, wants to insist that Peter isn’t selfish for wanting to have a break from his trauma. He wants to reach over and hold him and find a way to make it better.

He doesn’t know how.

He wishes, more than anything, that he did.

“Y’know,” Peter continues, either not noticing or blatantly ignoring the way Harley is looking at him with wide, watery eyes. “It’s actually my fault, the three of them dying. I caused it, and it’s—shitty, just living, for people that are dead because of you. Existing for them. It’s hard.”

“I don’t—” Harley stops, swallows roughly. “I don’t know the story, but you—I can guarantee that it isn’t—it isn’t your fault, Peter.”

The laugh is more of a sob now. “It is,” Peter says, shaking his hear and bringing up a shaking hand to wipe the tear off his cheek. “My parents, they were—they left a business trip early to come home a few days sooner because I was sick. They were on that plane to get to me, and it went down, and—and Ben, he was just trying to be a dad when he never asked to be one, you know? And I was such a shitty kid, Harley, I—I lashed out at him, I blamed him, and I ran off. And he came after me, because he was—he was so good at being a dad, even if he didn’t realize it, and it—the mugger just—and I heard the gunshot, and I looked over and he was—he was on the ground and I couldn’t stop the bleeding and he was—before the ambulance even got there, he was already—”

“Hey,” Harley interrupte, voice a croak as he reaches over and envelopes Peter in his arms. Peter cries, wails in an anguish that Harley has never heard before. “It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault, Peter, and they—I bet on everything I’ve got that they loved you more than anything, alright? And they wouldn’t want you to blame yourself like this. They’d want you to be happy.”

Peter sniffles, presses his nose to the side of Harley’s neck. “You didn’t know them.”

“No,” Harley agrees. “But I know you. There’s no such thing as not loving you, Peter Parker.”

-

(It’s easy to be someone else in college. But you don’t always have to be.)


End file.
